


follow the headlights down

by MissFaber



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Disabled Character, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Light Angst, M/M, Merlin is in a wheelchair, Merlin is paraplegic, Misunderstandings, Romance, Secrets, Snarky Merlin (Merlin), Wheelchairs, arthur is pining, as we LIKE IT, background gwencelot, but tbh this is one of the lightest and fluffiest things I've written, little shit Arthur with a heart of gold, morgana and arthur are siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: Merlin isn’t anything special. Not much of a looker… but there’s those eyes. And those cheekbones. He wasn't particularly funny or kind; in fact, it was quite the opposite. He insulted Arthur, called him a prat. (And it doesn't matter that Arthur was the one to instigate that; nope, not at all.)Arthur Pendragon hits rock bottom when he wakes up in the hospital after driving drunk. There he meets Merlin, his hospital roommate who uses insults generously, who won't leave Arthur's thoughts no matter what. Through a chance meeting (and a bit of persistence) they meet again, and again, and something starts to blossom between them that makes Arthur dizzy with hope. But if Merlin ever finds out the true nature of the events that happened the night before they met, would he ever look at Arthur the same? Would it ruin everything?





	1. wow. you're a prat.

**Author's Note:**

> I was digging through my onedrive and found this in an old folder of merthur fics I wrote, and decided to polish it and change it up a bit and post! It's from 2013 (yikes) originally a response to a livejournal prompt, so the premise isn't entirely my idea. 
> 
> Though this is far from Merlin's defining characteristic in this fic and sort of plays a background role, I do want to say that I'm writing about paraplegia/being in a wheelchair without any personal experience, just having done some internet searches. I am not disabled. So please feel free to correct me if I write anything wrong, or to offer your own perspective— I'd welcome it.

He remembers spinning, but not much else.

Arthur blinks blearily at the ceiling. Since he stirred awake some time ago, he’s been in a haze. Through the check-ups and the doctor’s soothing voice, through his father’s tirade which was anything but.

_An accident. Drunk driving._

He hears the words the doctors tells him, he knows what happened, technically. But he doesn’t remember it, can’t see it unfold in his mind’s eye, and that makes him doubt it a little, makes it easier for him to pretend it didn’t happen at all.

Arthur isn’t used to pretending. He has lived a strict life to avoid reaching this exact point. His life is schedules and suits in various shades of gray, _regulated,_ without room to spare for spontaneity and mistakes… precisely because of this. Because of his failure at making excuses, at excusing his own shortcomings, drilled into him by years of ruthless rearing from his father. Because of his inability to fashion any sort of creative alternate reality that could make life more bearable. Because of his inability to stomach guilt. Because of the lump in his throat that makes it impossible to speak, and the burning in his eyes that has him blinking. _Did I hurt anybody? What if I hurt somebody? _

The drugs they’re feeding him numbs his mind, and he is blessedly dazed again. Although that’s what started this, and Arthur’s chest gives a lurch, even if his body is too deadened to react.

He isn’t normally reckless with alcohol. He doesn’t even regularly keep alcohol in his flat. Somehow that— or maybe it’s the drugs— makes it easier to pretend that it didn’t happen at all, despite the tubes in his arm and the twinge in his back.

“Alright, there?”

It’s the doctor again, her small eyes and crinkling smile blurring as Arthur blinks at her. She must have slipped in without him noticing. Arthur licks his lips and croaks. “Water.”

She obliges, which strikes him as odd, as he expected her to send for a nurse. Arthur drinks the water greedily, though the doctor eventually admonishes him and pulls the cup away.

He asks, though the part of him that is self-preservation screams at him not to. “What happened?”

She answers— and from her voice, monotonous and slightly weary, Arthur knows this isn’t the first time she’s recounted the events. Arthur was driving drunk. Through a series of events she isn’t entirely sure of, Arthur scraped the passenger side of his car on a metal post and swerved to the other side of the street during oncoming traffic. At that, Arthur feels a shudder creep down his spine— though the doctor assures him the post was the only thing he hit. He supposes he should be comforted. It could have been much worse.

His father “took care” of the police, the doctor informs him, her nose wrinkling in obvious distaste. Arthur looks away. Despite himself, he’s glad for the reach of his Uther Pendragon’s arm. Just this once.

Nobody was hurt, as far as she knows. Arthur hates the way she says this, like there’s the possibility of something else.

“We’re keeping you overnight,” she concludes. “Just as a precaution. We’ll need to check your vitals again in the morning, but you were extremely lucky.”

Arthur mumbles his thanks. He isn’t sure if he does it before or after she’s left the room. 

* * *

Arthur opens and closes his eyes, drifting in and out of something resembling sleep. During a stretch of time when his eyes are open and his mind feels almost awake, painfully so, his sister bursts into the room with a flurry of black hair and agitated hands.

_“Arthur!” _

She rushes to him, then stops at the side of his bed. She glares at him, hits him atop the head, then hugs him so tight he thinks he feels his ribs scrape together.

_“Morgana!_ Careful...”

_“Shit_, Arthur. _Fuck_. What do you think you were _doing?_ How could you be so _stupid?” _

She pulls away, and Arthur sees the tears tracking her cheeks. The retort freezes on his tongue.

“I know,” he replies, subdued. “It was stupid.”

_“Really_ stupid.” Her voice, despite the tears still in her eyes, is steady. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Arthur shrugs, suddenly miserable. He wishes he was anywhere but here. Morgana’s right— it was the dumbest, most reckless thing he ever did, and he could have killed someone, or himself.

Morgana’s hand covers his own, startling him. Her voice is gentler when she speaks. “What happened, Arthur?”

He swallows. “Sophia. She left me.”

Morgana makes a small sound in her throat, but says nothing. Arthur is grateful for her sense, knowing it’s costing her all her restraint not to say _I told you so, _not to express her distaste for Sophia. Arthur doesn’t think he can bear it just yet.

They sit in silence, and when Morgana presses a kiss to his forehead after saying goodbye, he says, “I’ll miss work tomorrow,” startled by the realization.

Morgana laughs as she pulls away. “There you are. Back to normal.”

It’s impossible to keep his eyes open when Morgana leaves, and he surrenders to sleep gladly.

* * *

When Arthur wakes, he isn’t alone.

A man sits on the bed across from his. Arthur blinks. He doesn’t remember seeing another bed when he was wheeled in, and he sighs quietly, making up his mind to rectify this. If he’s to suffer being here, he’ll suffer alone at least.

As though sensing his thoughts, the man twists in his spot and looks at him. His long fingers twist into the covers, and Arthur doesn’t know why the small movement catches his eye. He pins it to lack of proper rest, and makes up his mind to turn away and try to get some when the man speaks.

“You’re awake.”

He says it with a familiarity that rankles Arthur. He frowns. “It would appear so.”

Deciding that was sufficiently rude, Arthur burrows his head into the thin pillow. But the man is undeterred, apparently, because he tries again.

“Are you okay?”

Arthur turns his head and stares, knowing from experience this would be enough to intimidate anyone into silence. But the man stares back, blinking at him owlishly. Then he smiles, a bright thing that takes over his entire face. When he speaks he’s suddenly shy and uncertain. “I mean. I’m sorry if I’m intruding… it’s just that, they said it was a car accident.”

“_Who_ said?”

The man almost flinches— almost, and Arthur feels the scowl on his face.

“Don’t blame them. The nurses get bored. And I sort of wheedled it out of her, anyway. She said it involved a car, and... well. I don't know, kindred spirits and all that?”

Arthur glares, dimly registering how he must look, eyes bugging. The man’s hands twist into the bed sheets further. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “You don’t have to talk about it. I understand, really.”

Arthur clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “Apology accepted.”

Instead of taking that dismissal as he should have done, the man twists further in his spot, angling his torso so that he’s almost facing Arthur though his legs stay immobile.

“Wow,” the man says. Then again: _“Wow_. You’re a prat.”

* * *

_“Excuse_ me?”

The blonde man’s eyebrows have shot into his hairline as if no one’s ever insulted him in his life. _Maybe they haven’t. _Well, Merlin’s honored to be the first. It’s hard to tell anything about the man when he’s nameless and just in a hospital gown, but there’s an air about him of elitism and entitlement. Merlin wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was some sort of aristocrat, old money, heir to a generational estate in Bath…

Merlin snaps out of his fantasies when the blonde man clears his throat, and he realizes he never responded.

“You’re excused.”

He twists to grab his phone from the night-table before the man can respond. Somehow he knows being ignored will irritate the man more than anything else.

Lance picks up on the second ring. “All good there, Merlin?”

“All good. Are you still in the waiting room?”

“Yeah.”

“Nurse said I’m ready to go.”

“Great. Be there in a minute.”

Merlin says a quick goodbye and return his phone to its place. He glances at the man and catches him watching. His cheeks turn pink.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have been rude,” he says, in a tone Merlin has yet to hear from him. Genuinely apologetic. Merlin lets himself look at him. His hair is spun gold, messy from sleep, or maybe it’s always like that. Merlin likes to imagine it’s the latter. The skin under his sky blue eyes are shadowed in a way Merlin imagines is mirrored on his own face—a night at the hospital will do that to you.

Gwen and Lance come in before he can respond. Gwen’s face is lined with worry despite the number of times they’ve repeated this exact trip.

“Merlin. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine, Gwen.”

Lance places a comforting hand on her shoulder, before turning his attention to Merlin. “Ready to go?”

* * *

Arthur doesn’t know why he apologized. The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Apologies are rare from him, but the man in the other bed was thin and the vulnerability in his eyes and quickness of his smile suggested that he was unequipped to deal with the bluntness that came so naturally to Arthur, and for once he felt almost shamed for it. The man was looking at him from beneath his long lashes, swallowing, his mouth open as if to say something, the cavity behind it a vibrant red, and wasn’t that a strange thing to notice?

But then the door opened, and his friends were talking to him, and Merlin—_Merlin,_ now isn’t that a fucking coincidence— must have thought better of whatever he was going to say.

Arthur notices the male friend, Lance, dragging something clunky and black and metal with him, half obscured by his form. He tries not to listen as the three of them talk, but he can’t help but notice the softness in the Lance’s eyes as he looks at Merlin, and the way irritation swells in his chest at that.

There’s a _snap_ and a _whoosh_ as Lance fiddles with his cargo, and Arthur watches openly, curious, as Lance bends over Merlin.

Arthur frowns, wondering why he’s doing that, why the hell he’s—it’s a hospital, for God’s sake—

But then Lance hooks his arms underneath Merlin’s shoulders and below his knees. Merlin’s arms curl over Lance’s shoulders. And then Lance is lifting him from the bed, carrying him, and there’s a moment when Merlin is cradled against Lance’s broad chest before he’s lowered to the wheelchair where Arthur understands.

He looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. This is intimate; he shouldn’t have stared. _God, I’m a piece of shit. _He feels his face flush with embarrassment and guilt.

The sounds of their departure do nothing to ease that. A cough meets his ears, and Arthur flushes further— he was so engrossed in watching Merlin that he didn’t notice the nurse walking in. She stands by the window, fiddling with a clipboard.

“Poor dear,” she coos, looking at Arthur. “It’s sad.”

It registers with Arthur that this must be the "talkative", ridiculously unprofessional nurse who told Merlin of his case. He scowls— this is all her fault.

“It was a car accident that messed him up so bad, you know,” she says. “Drunk driver.”

There’s a horrible, horrible second where Arthur thinks it’s _him_—he’s _sure_ it’s him, _he_ hit him, he hit Merlin, Merlin who’s in a wheelchair now because of him and oh _God_ he’s a—

_No._

His breath comes quick and shallow, pounding in his ears as he scrambles to reassure himself. _No._ The doctor told him he didn’t hurt anyone. And Merlin… he may have been hit by a drunk driver, but not recently. Not tonight. 

As Arthur’s breathing evens out, he sinks into his pillow, exhausted. Merlin’s smile shouldn't have been so freely given. His eyes shouldn’t have been so blue.

Arthur swallows on an unbearably dry throat and wonders when he’ll be able to go home.

* * *

Arthur is dispatched later that day, and although he tells himself vehemently that he _isn’t_, he looks for Merlin in the hours before he leaves.

He catches himself at it when he first wakes from another drug induced nap. He stutters into consciousness slowly, and his head automatically turns to the right.

But the bed is empty and freshly made, linens tucked in tight. Arthur blinks at it, wondering what the hell he’s looking for.

When it comes to him— black hair, blue eyes, elbows and knees— he wishes he let the thought be.

In the hours that follow Arthur catches himself looking in odd moments, searching. As he’s led to the restroom, he peeks out of the window. When a nurse takes his blood pressure, he tries to peer beyond a closed curtain to discern a shadow behind it. As he’s walked out of the room, Arthur tries to peek around the corner, then collapses back into reality when he almost loses his balance.

He wonders why. Merlin isn’t anything special. Not much of a looker… but there’s those eyes. And those cheekbones. He wasn’t particularly funny or kind; in fact, it was quite the opposite. He _insulted_ Arthur, called him a prat. (And it doesn't matter that Arthur was the one to instigate that; nope, not at all.)

As morning melts into afternoon, he decides that must be it. Merlin left an impression because Arthur isn’t used to skinny boys being so unapologetically _rude_ to him. And so he relaxes a bit, telling himself he found the answer to the irritating riddle— and Merlin creeps into his thoughts all the more often for it.

Eventually, Arthur surrenders to his base self. As the chatty nurse walks in and fiddles with the area around his bed, he asks with complete nonchalance about the man who was there earlier.

“His name was _Merlin_. Isn't that odd?”

“Sure is,” the nurse replies.

“What kind of last name would go with that, do you think? And _not_ sound strange?”

The nurse closes her mouth and stares at him for a moment, and Arthur almost winces. _Not_ his best effort.

She leaves thirty seconds later; apparently, divulging patient names is not permissible even in _her_ spotty moral code. Arthur smacks a head to his forehead; this is the most stupid, pathetic thing he’s ever done, and he has no idea why he did it to begin with.

When Morgana picks him up, Arthur leans his head against the back of the wheelchair, closes his eyes, and tells himself to forget about the man with the long fingers and the snarky, red mouth. If there’s anything Arthur’s good at, it’s pretending to forget.


	2. chilean bellflowers

Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever see Merlin again, and when he does, it’s like a shock of cold water.

In retrospect, Arthur realizes he should have seen it coming. Morgana often talks of her friend Gwen, and of her boyfriend_ Lance—_ neither a particularly common name. In the weeks preceding Morgana’s party, in which Arthur is given the duties of a wedding coordinator and the leash of a dog, he should have realized that the encounter was imminent.

“_No, _Morgana, I’m not ordering those bloody flowers—”

“Chilean bellflowers, Arthur.”

“Well, I’m not ordering them from _South America_.”

Morgana morphs from a commandeering woman in a pencil skirt and frightening heels to a whining child in a split second. “Please, Arthur! They’re essential for the party!”

“Um. _No_.”

“_Please!”_

“Morgana, it’s just a party, not your bloody _wedding_.”

Morgana’s mouth opens and closes, spluttering in indignation. “I’ve just finished med school! _Medical school_, Arthur. This is more important than my _hypothetical _wedding.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and pretends Morgana makes sense. “Alright. Whatever you say.”

“So.” She shoots him a bright smile—he squints at her, suspicious. “Chilean bellflowers?”

He sighs. Morgana’s face crumples. “Please, _please_ Arthur, it’ll mean so much to me!”

“Get Leon to do it,” Arthur grumbles, feeling surrender just around the corner.

Morgana immediately brightens. “That’s not a bad idea. Tell him, will you?”

“What— no— _you_ tell ’im!”

Morgana rises from her chair and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a gem, Arthur!”

He glares at her. “I’m _just_ working on the guest list. That’s all.”

She waves a hand dismissively, as though they both know better. And Arthur supposes they do.

“Whatever you say, brother.” She pats him twice on the back before turning to leave. Just as she reaches the door, she glances back at him. “Oh— that reminds me. Gwen and Lance are bringing a guest, sweet little thing. Don’t forget to pencil him in, will you?”

Arthur nods, and Morgana beams.

He really should have seen it coming—he was doing most of the planning, after all. Perhaps, if he had the slightest bit of foresight, he wouldn’t have spilled his beer all over Merlin’s shoes.

* * *

At said occasion, Arthur looks down with horror at Merlin’s feet where they sit absolutely still on those wheelchair… footrest… things. _What are they called? Do they have a name? Fuck, I’m an idiot._

“Oh. _Shit_.”

Arthur was rushing through Morgana’s parlor, heading for the front door to get his jacket out of his car—the party was mostly out in Morgana’s garden at the moment, and the evening was already chilly—when he stumbled over something and spilled his beer.

Merlin’s glaring at him, bottom lip trembling; but his bright, steely eyes tell Arthur it’s from anger.

“Shit. _Shit_, Merlin, I— I didn’t expect—”

Merlin crosses his arms over his chest. “What? You didn’t expect _what?_ _Guests?”_

“What’s holding you up— _oh_._”_ Morgana stutters to a stop behind him, catching sight of Merlin fuming in his chair. She looks between his sopping shoes to Arthur’s empty glass, and then sends Arthur an exasperated look.

“I apologize for my clumsy brother, Merlin.” Morgana rolls her eyes at him before sending Merlin a sympathetic look. “I’m sure he’d be glad to lend you a pair of shoes to rectify his mistake…?”

She ends it on an inquiring note, her head whipping around to shoot Arthur a glare. He swoops in, never more glad than he is at that moment that he keeps clothes at Morgana’s place. “Yes, yes of course— I really am sorry. I didn’t think anyone was back here.”

“It isn’t really an apology if you immediately follow it up with an excuse. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

Arthur ignores the way Merlin’s cheekiness stokes his own, and he definitely ignores the urge to retort by saying he’s pretty sure he tripped over the wheel of Merlin’s wheelchair. “Ahem. _Well._ Sorry I wasn’t looking. I don’t know what came over me.”

Morgana rolls her eyes as she swishes past them to join her guests, muttering something suspiciously like: _“I do.”_

Arthur cautiously glances at Merlin— he still looks a tad like he might hate his guts. Arthur sighs and starts to move behind him with the intention of pushing Merlin’s chair.

_“No.”_ The sharp sound startles him. Arthur walks a few steps around so that he can see Merlin’s face, and finds him glaring. “I can push myself, thanks.”

Arthur holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Merlin doesn’t respond, pushing forward. Arthur follows him, then moves ahead of him when he realizes Merlin doesn’t know where he’s going. “This way,” he mutters.

At first, he walks slow, thinking he’s being polite. But Merlin doesn’t need it; the chair is fast, even bumping into the backs of Arthur’s legs a few times. On the fourth time, Arthur looks back and catches something like a smirk on Merlin’s face.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” Arthur demands.

“Maybe.”

Arthur grins too, surprisingly not angry. At all.

Now Merlin looks up. “You’re moving too slow,” he lends in explanation. “I don’t need that, you know.”

Arthur nods frantically. “Right. I’m… right.”

He moves quicker then, crossing the empty foyer to the foot of the spiraling staircase— and there he pauses. _Fuck. _

He casts Merlin a subtle glance, wondering what the hell to do. Should he leave and fetch the shoes alone? Should he go immediately, or should he offer an explanation? An apology? Should he offer to help him up the stairs, somehow? And is this normal or insulting— does Merlin expect the places he visits to be wheelchair accessible? Are they, he and Morgana, in the wrong?

Panic grips him. He has _no_ idea what the proper protocol is. And he doesn’t want to further offend or anger Merlin— he’s already ruined the bloke’s shoes, for God’s sake.

It’s a moment before he realizes that Merlin’s sniggering.

Arthur turns around, glares at him. Merlin’s stifling the sound with a hand against his mouth. _“__What’s_ so funny?”

“That internal crisis you’ve got going on there.” Merlin shakes his head in amusement. “You’ve got no idea what to do. It’s a bit funny.”

“It’s not funny.” Anger, or maybe embarrassment at being so easily caught out, flares inside him. “And besides. That’s not what I was thinking at all.”

“Right,” Merlin shrugs, indulging him. “You know, I won’t cry if you don’t offer to carry me up the stairs.”

_“__Should_ I offer?”

Merlin gives an inelegant snort. “_No_. I’ll be fine waiting down here.”

Arthur looks at him, measuring the truth of his words. Merlin nods, as through reassuring him. “Seriously. And don’t feel bad— I’ve seen it all.”

Arthur takes the stairs two at a time so as to be back downstairs quicker.

* * *

Merlin takes Arthur’s loafers with a smile, and Arthur’s taken aback. If someone ruined a pair of _his_ shoes, he wouldn’t be smiling.

(He tells himself he does _not _notice the way Merlin’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.)

Merlin uses his arms to lean over a bit to look at his sodden trainers. “My favorite Converse,” he pouts.

Arthur winces. “I’m sorry. I… I’m pretty sure you can throw them in the wash, and they’ll be alright.”

“Yeah.” Merlin smiles, notably brighter, and that makes Arthur feel…. well.

Then Merlin laughs. “I’m about to wear your shoes, but I don’t even know your name. I’ve been calling you ‘blonde man’ in my head.”

Arthur laughs too; _stupid_. “I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

He holds out a hand, and Merlin takes it, smiling. “Merlin Emrys.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Merlin.

“Likewise. Though we’ve already met.” Merlin arches a brow. “I see the prattishness isn’t a one-time thing, but more of a habit with you.”

“_Prattishness?”_ Arthur laughs. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

Merlin shrugs, as though proper language is the last thing he could possibly be concerned with.

“Merlin!”

It’s the girl from the hospital— Gwen, Arthur remembers. She gives Merlin a concerned look before spotting Arthur. She stops, her brow furrowed as she looks at him. “I know you.”

“Bloke from the hospital,” Merlin offers. “Blonde, snobby.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says dryly.

“No problem,” Merlin replies brightly.

Arthur shakes his head again; then catches himself and extends a hand to Gwen. “I’m Arthur Pendragon. Morgana’s brother.”

“Oh!” Gwen claps a hand to her mouth, and when it comes away she’s wearing a tentative smile. “Morgana told me her brother was in some sort of accident, but I didn’t put the pieces together. Are you alright?”

Her forehead is creased with genuine concern, and Arthur reassures her. “I’m fine, really. Barely a scratch.”

Gwen sighs in relief. “Thank God.”

Footsteps alert them to Lance’s arrival. He takes a look at Gwen’s face and asks if she’s alright.

“Fine,” she tells him, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I’ve just met Arthur, that’s all. The one who was in the accident.”

“Oh.” Lance looks at him, dark eyes solemn. “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” Arthur insists.

“Good to hear.” Lance claps him on the back. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you, eh?”

“Yes, anything,” Gwen stresses.

Arthur blinks in surprise; he’s used to such meaningless platitudes from people but they seem genuinely sincere. He recovers his composure quickly. “Will do.”

Gwen nods, then turns to Merlin. “Come outside soon, alright?”

“There’s brandy.” Lance winks at him, and Merlin smiles and nods. Arthur watches them ago, arms around each other’s waists, until Merlin coughs.

“Yeah.” Merlin’s smirking like he caught Arthur at something, _again_. “That’s the general reaction to people who meet Lance and Gwen for the first time.”

“They seem nice,” Arthur says dismissively.

“More like the nicest people in the world.” His mouth curves in a soft smile that Arthur doesn’t think Merlin’s aware of. 

Arthur coughs to clear his throat, and his head. “We should join the others, before Morgana thinks I’ve killed you.”

Merlin laughs, the sound loud and clear in the empty hall, before pushing himself forward. Arthur follows, the ghost of a smile on his face. 

In the garden the chill hits him instantly, and Arthur realizes he forgot to get his jacket. He decides against going back for it. Morgana is in the middle of sharing a story. Wineglass in hand, she is the center of attention with her stunning violet dress and her bright smile. Arthur watches her for a moment, truly happy for her; and when her tale is through, he realizes Merlin is no longer beside him.

He seeks him out, finding him by Leon. They’ve struck up a conversation, and Merlin says something that makes Leon laugh.

Arthur watches from his perch, content for the moment to observe. Morgana and Gwen laugh over glasses of a deep red wine. Mordred and Morgause can be seen through the doorway that leads to the dining room, setting the table. And Merlin— Merlin talks animatedly, hands flapping, as his audience has expanded into Elena and Mithian.

Anyone observing would never think Merlin has just met these people. He has a natural charm, a talent for making people listen and laugh, and Arthur smiles to himself as he watches it at play. He doesn’t know what assumptions he held about Merlin before, but he senses they aren’t true—that Merlin’s full of surprises. Although it goes against the grain of who he is, he tells himself he’ll try not to make assumptions about Merlin.

And maybe he’ll go a little out of his way to make sure he’s comfortable, too. Arthur owes it to him, after all— he ruined the man’s shoes. It’s the least he can do.

* * *

Dinner is a jolly occasion, despite Elyan’s drunkenness and Vivian turning her nose up at the catered food.

“I feel like I really have to thank Arthur for all of this,” Morgana says as she forks salad onto her plate. “The Chilean bellflowers really set the atmosphere, Arthur.”

She says it with cheek yet Arthur feels his face heat. He clears his throat. “No problem, Morgana.”

Merlin looks between him and his sister, eyes curious and amused and _blue._ “What did Arthur do?”

_“Everything,”_ Morgana laughs. “I worked him hard to put this night together.”

“Thank you for the thorough emasculation, Morgana, I’ll remember it next time,” Arthur says dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Morgana returns brightly.

Arthur returns his attention to his plate, caught between frustration and adoration for her, as he always seems to be. But Merlin’s gaze lingers on him, and for that, Arthur thinks the entire exchange might have been worth it.

In the process of spreading butter on a roll, Arthur feels a nudge against his foot. He looks up and finds Elena smiling at him.

“The flowers are really beautiful, Arthur,” she says.

“_Absolutely_,” stresses a brunette Arthur doesn’t recognize, a girl who looks too much like Sophia for comfort.

“Before we dig in.” It’s Morgause, glass raised. “A toast. To Morgana!” 

Morgana raises her glass silently, her smile extending from ear to ear.

“To a fantastic friend,” Gwen says, to a murmur of assent.

“To the most smartly dressed woman I know!” This comes from Elena, and it makes Morgana look even more pleased with herself, if that’s possible.

“To making the rest of us feel like idiots by pursuing higher and higher education,” says Mordred, to the laughter of all; and when it dies down, Arthur raises his glass.

“To my sister,” he says, looking straight at her. “Who proved she can do _anything.”_

Morgana looked immensely pleased before; now she looks near tears. She presses a hand to her chest and closes her eyes, swallowing visibly. But a moment later her eyes are open and her glass is extended, and Mordred calls her name a final time, which everyone echoes before downing their drinks.

The rest of the meal is a blur of laughter and jokes and exaggerated anecdotes, and Arthur forgets about the accident and Sophia and the Chilean bellflowers, settling himself comfortably into the feeling of Merlin’s eyes on him.

* * *

As they’re leaving, Gwen is in the middle of donning her coat when she notices Merlin’s—or, rather, Arthur’s— shoes. She lifts her brows. “What happened here?”

And then Merlin looks up, face positively lit up and lips curved in a soft smile as he says: “Arthur happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment + kudos!


	3. no french food

Arthur lasts about a week before asking Morgana about Merlin.

Before this, Arthur tries to find him in more organic and less painful ways. He casually asks Leon if he happened by Merlin’s number at Morgana’s party, to which Leon shrugs and says he didn’t. He asks Leon if Merlin happened to give it to his girlfriend, and Leon gives him an odd look for an answer.

Next he inquires amongst the girls for Gwen’s information, and amongst the blokes for Lance’s. Neither Mithian nor Elena have anything on Gwen—they seem to only know her through Morgana— and Percy informs him that Lance is a nurse. None of them seem to know anything concrete about Merlin—nothing except the neighborhood of his job, which Mithian gives him after a few days of futile searching.

She calls him to her desk to deliver the information, a bold move as his assistant. But Arthur knows by the tone of barely contained glee in her voice that she has the information he wants, so he doesn’t mind the power move the slightest bit.

“Yes?” he asks, impatient, ignoring the wide teasing smile on her face.

“That’s right, I have information on Merlin.” Arthur registers the way his stomach clenches just at the mention of his name. “It was Elena, not me.”

“I’m sending you both to a five star dinner,” he promises. “Anywhere you like.”

“Ooh, she’ll love that… she’s mentioned wanting to try…” She trails off at the expression on Arthur’s face. “Okay. Well, Elena does a yoga class in this neighborhood on Tuesdays. It’s two floors above the smoothie place you like… anyway. Yes. One of her yoga friends, Freya, lovely girl… she had to leave class early today because her boss, a certain _Merlin Emrys, _needed her back.”

“Okay,” Arthur manages, indulging the tale only because it’s Mithian and she has information on Merlin, which he desperately wants. “So she got his phone number?”

“Um—no.”

Arthur frowns. “The assistant’s number?”

“No.”

“His office number?”

Mithian shakes her head.

“What _do _you have?”

Mithian scoffs. “He works in this neighborhood! Freya takes that class on her lunch break.”

“Oh my god.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Why won’t you add him on social media like a normal person? _I’m_ already friends with him.”

“I did that,” Arthur calls over his shoulder, already returning to his office.

_“What?_ Okay then! What do you need more information for? Ask him out!”

“I’m not going to… _slide _into his messages. Or whatever the kids say.” Arthur flushes, even as he tries to ignore Mithian’s snickering at his expense, which she fails to hide behind her hands. “I’ll do it in person. Or at the very least over the phone. Like a civilized human being.”

“Okay,” Mithian condescends, rolling her eyes, and although Arthur spends a good chunk of the next hour shaking his head at the waste of time the conversation was, he reluctantly admits it wasn’t entirely useless— and Elena and Mithian get their romantic, five star dinner. 

* * *

Over the next week, Arthur’s days are more colorful and varied than they’ve been since… well, ever. Arthur’s a man of routine, and he likes it that way. But the knowledge that Merlin could be nearby won’t let him rest.

So Arthur frequents the park across from his office building, becoming someone who takes breaks during the workday. He tries a different coffee shop each morning instead of relying on the upscale coffee machine in his office. On one particularly desperate Thursday evening, he pops his head into the bar at the end of the block during happy hour. Although he knows it’s a stretch, he can’t help the little flutter in his stomach before each attempt. Alarm bells ring in his mind, urging him to search for and snuff out the reason for this uncharacteristic behavior, but Arthur muffles the sound with more pressing notices from the office and goes about his day.

He tries everything before resorting to Morgana, and when he does, he immediately regrets it.

She gives him a knowing look as he sits on her sofa, hands clasped between his knees.

_“What?” _He’s snapping already.

“Nothing, nothing.” Morgana waves a hand dismissively, though her lips curl in what can only be described as a satisfied sneer. “So, you’d like to know where Merlin works?”

“I’d prefer his phone number.”

Morgana tuts. “I don’t feel comfortable giving out that sort of information.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Quit fucking with me, Morgana.”

But she sits back and blinks innocently, taking loud sips from a dry martini until Arthur sighs.

“Alright, fine, his workplace, whatever. He… Merlin, that is… he’s interesting, I guess. Thought maybe we could meet up…” Her already obscenely large eyes widen even further, and Arthur can’t stand the satisfaction he sees there. “—with the rest of the blokes, that is.”

Morgana arches a perfect brow, and Arthur almost winces.

“The rest of the blokes?” she inquires. “Is it one of _them_ who wants to meet up with Merlin?”

“No,” he sighs, surrendering. He’ll get what he wants faster this way. “It's me.”

Morgana holds his gaze for a moment, then smiles. “Relax, Arthur. I don’t mind telling you where Merlin works.”

Arthur eyes her warily; a lifetime of knowing her have armed him with the knowledge that there are strings attached. “You don’t?”

“Not at all,” Morgana says. “In fact, I think he’d be good for you.”

Arthur bristles. _"Good_ for me? How’s— what does _that_ mean?”

Morgana sniffs. “I’m just not too fond of any of the current people in your life, that’s all.”

“Hey,” Arthur protests.

“Well, Leon’s alright,” Morgana relents. “He’s great, actually. And Percy’s very… polite. But everyone else I _despise_… everyone you play footie with, and everyone from the office.” She gives a dramatic shudder at that. “Except for Mithian. Oh, she’s _darling.”_

“Alright, great.”

“But _Merlin…_ well, I can see why you’re interested.”

Arthur blushes and coughs to cover it up. “So. Where does he work?”

* * *

Merlin Emrys works at an advertising agency, and Arthur is up the lift and through the heavy double glass doors before he realizes he has no concrete explanation to offer for his appearance.

He stands awkwardly in the vast, polished space before the receptionist area and considers turning back—but it’s too late. Just as he turns on his heel, he catches sight of Gwen—or, she catches sight of him.

“Arthur… what are you doing here?”

Gwen crosses her arms over her chest, expression unreadable, and it throws him off.

“I… um.” He considers offering up some unconvincing excuse, then decides against it. “I’m here to see Merlin.”

“Merlin?”

This comes from a petite, dark haired woman who pops her head out of the first door in the corridor. She gives him a wide smile. Arthur returns it. “Yeah, Merlin. Arthur Pendragon.”

Her smile grows wider as she approaches him; by contrast, Gwen frowns.

“I’m Freya, his personal assistant.” She clutches a tablet to her chest, which she briefly glances at before returning her gaze to him. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh—”

“That’s alright, I know you don’t.” Freya shakes her head, still smiling. “But Merlin said that if a Mr. Pendragon were to drop by, I should show him right in.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open in surprise. Gwen shakes her head and mutters something to herself, something that sounds vaguely threatening and Morgana-like, as she turns on her heel and walks away. But Freya is still smiling, looking expectant.

“So you’d like to see him now, Mr. Pendragon?”

“Yeah… I would.” Arthur feels the fog in his mind clear as Freya’s words settle in. “He said that?”

“Oh, yes.” Freya’s starts to walk, and Arthur moves to keep in step with her surprisingly quick strides. “He’s been eagerly anticipating your visit.”

Arthur feels himself swell with reassurance at Freya’s words. It seems, whatever this is, it isn’t one sided.

Freya stops and knocks at a door, _the _door, the only thing standing between him and Merlin.

“Come in.”

Already, Arthur’s stomach is set aflutter, and he almost angrily quells the feeling.

He stands aside as Freya pops her head in. “Merlin?”

“Oh, good, Freya—the colors on these prototypes are all wrong, I _don’t_ know what those people in the copy rooms get paid for. And I have a feeling I missed a lunch appointment with Gwaine, which would be terrible, because we need him to model for one of our biggest accounts and he’d take it personally and—_fuck,_ I am in dire need of a coffee.”

Arthur chuckles, unable to hold it in. Merlin sounds— well, he sounds like _him_. It’s like the way he sometimes releases a bit of pent up steam when only his assistant, Mithian, can hear him— though Arthur’s never quite so brazen.

Freya holds up an apologetic finger to Arthur, mouths _“one second”_ and walks in. But the latch catches as she closes the door behind her, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Before you freak out,” he hears Freya say. “I have new copies of the prototypes. I caught a glimpse of Kara doing them and assumed they’d need a fix.”

The sound of shuffling paper alerts Arthur to the depositing of documents. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Merlin says, and Arthur imagines the mirth dancing in his bright eyes as he says it.

“Your appointment with Gwaine is for dinner, 8:30 at Ledbury.”

“I hate French food.” Arthur can almost hear the frown in Merlin’s voice.

“Well, we had to compromise,” Freya says. “He wanted to smoke, and it’s wheelchair accessible.”

A beat. Then Merlin’s quiet, resigned: “Right.”

“Hey, cheer up,” says Freya. “Coffee’s on the way. A scone, too.”

“You’re a saint,” Merlin murmurs.

“Arthur Pendragon as well.”

_“What?”_

“He’s standing right outside.” Freya sounds delightfully shameless, and Arthur takes an immediate liking to her.

Arthur listens to Merlin take a deep breath. “Alright, send him in.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Merlin. Did you take your meds?”

“Of_ course_ I did, Freya. I’m not a child. In fact, I’m your employer, and—”

“I’m fired, I know.” Freya sounds amused as she says this. “So you took them?”

_“Yes.”_

“I don’t mean to irritate you. Gwen kept you late for lunch and she mentioned it when I walked her out. She’d kill me if I didn’t fret.”

“I’ll kill you both,” Merlin says, but it sounds fond. “Send him in, will you?”

“Will do, boss.”

Arthur hears footsteps and immediately backs to the opposite wall, pretending to look nonchalant as Freya steps out of Merlin’s office.

“You can go right ahead,” she tells him, with a parting smile.

Arthur swallows and does just that.

Merlin’s office is…. _disorganized_. That’s the kindest way Arthur can put it. There’s one clear cut path between the door and the desk, which he assumes is how Freya was able to move in and out so quickly, but complete chaos on either side. There’s a handful of chairs, maybe seven—it’s hard to tell because they’re all covered with folders stuffed with papers and towers of books. Two jumpers are slung over random surfaces. Papers clutter the floor, causing Arthur to step gingerly. The walls are covered in posters far too juvenile for a grown man’s bedroom, let alone a workplace— Arthur thinks he glimpses a _Lord of the Rings_ poster half-hidden behind a corkboard.

He’s halfway across the room when Merlin maneuvers his wheelchair around to face him.

“Sorry about the mess,” Merlin says in lieu of a greeting. “I don’t notice it anymore.”

“That’s— it’s fine.” Arthur smiles tightly. A few long strides bring him to the only empty seat in the room, thankfully directly opposite Merlin. “Not the way I’d choose to decorate, but...”

“Yeah, they pretty much give us free reign here.” Merlin gestures around himself, at the proof. “We’re paid to create, so if having a messy office or coming in once a week will get them better results and more money, they’re fine with it.”

“Interesting.” Personally, Arthur can’t imagine an office functioning properly with all that potential for disorder, but it isn’t his business.

“So.” Merlin leans forward and rests his hands on his desk. “This is a surprise.”

He talks before he thinks. “That’s not what your assistant says.”

The tips of Merlin’s ears go red, but he smiles. “Yes, well. She’s been fired several times, so I’d encourage you to dismiss anything she says.”

Arthur laughs too. “Sure.”

As if on cue, Freya comes in after a knock on the door, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. Merlin offers him the tray first; Arthur declines the biscuits but sips at his hot coffee, marveling at how much easier this is than what he thought it would be. There’s something about Merlin, he decides; something that makes him anxious while distanced, but sets him at ease when they’re together.

“I know why you’re here,” Merlin says, muffled around a mouthful of biscuit and coffee.

Arthur swallows his coffee before speaking, like a refined human being, the superiority a distraction from the way his heart has started thumping furiously—because is he really _that_ transparent?

“Good,” he says, after a moment of thought. “Then it’s a yes?”

“Wait.” Merlin’s brow furrows. “What?”

Arthur freezes, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Um…” Merlin’s hands begin to tug on his shirtsleeves, then they vanish beneath the desk. “Sorry, what was it that brought you here?”

“What did you think?” Arthur’s tone is perhaps a bit too rough, but he’s mortified.

“I thought you came by to pick up your shoes,” he says. “I’ve got ’em.”

He stretches a bit to the left, rummages in a drawer and emerges a moment later with a bag in hand, triumphant.

“Right,” Arthur says.

“Thought you’d be wanting them back,” Merlin says, a little uncertainly, and Arthur takes small pleasure in the small doubt in his voice because the shoes were the furthest thing from Arthur’s mind.

He looks at Merlin— at the way his bottom lip is drawn in between his teeth and the momentary sweep of lashes against his cheek as he glances down at the shoes— and he decides. _Fuck it_. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or what the hell this is, but he’s going to take a chance. And if he makes a complete arse out of himself, well, it might prove to be worth it.

“I didn’t come for the shoes,” he says, definitive and confident, and he registers the way Merlin’s eyes widen. “I came to ask you to dinner.”

Arthur’s a little delighted to see Merlin’s ears go pink. “Oh. Well, I’m busy tonight— it’s a work thing, I’m—”

“That’s alright,” Arthur says, quickly, because it sounds like Merlin’s saying _yes_.

“I just want to be clear on something.” Merlin’s staring at his lap, chewing on his lip, expression almost comically serious. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t usually…”

He looks at Arthur pointedly, and it clicks. _Oh._

Arthur tells himself his heart didn’t just plummet to his stomach. “That’s fine. Forget about it.”

He makes to rise from his chair, but Merlin stops him—not by reaching across the desk, which Merlin tries to. But he comes up short. The intention to grab Arthur’s hand was clear.

“Sorry.” A frown twists Merlin’s mouth, and between his brows is a thin line of concentration. His other hand is clutching the arm rail of the chair, fist clenched; he’s holding himself out, as far as he can go. “I can’t…”

“It’s fine— it’s _fine_.” Arthur suddenly feels terrible, out of his depth. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin, it’s okay.”

Merlin’s face darkens.

“Shit— I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean you’re stupid, or anything. Not at all. Clearly, you’re brilliant.” He gestures around him, at the office; he laughs uncomfortably. “Sorry, that wasn’t… the right thing to say.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Merlin says quietly.

“Tell me what is.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth curves up. “How about…‘I’m free tomorrow.’”

Arthur’s flooded with relief, but a moment later it’s marred by confusion. “Wait… I thought you said…" It's difficult to speak so plainly, but he has to, has to be sure. "You don’t date men.”

“I _only_ date men,” Merlin clarifies with a quirk of his brow. “I meant… I don’t usually do _this…_ get asked out by insanely handsome if a bit pompous men.”

Arthur doesn’t even register the jab. He only feels elation, the sweetest anticipation, and a touch of tenderness as he looks at Merlin’s open face.

“I seriously doubt that,” he says in a voice much too soft.

Merlin smiles, and it’s brighter than the light pouring in from the windows. “So… are you free tomorrow?”

“Yes. _Yes._ I’m free. Are you?”

Merlin laughs. “Yes.”

“Great!” Arthur realizes his voice is too loud, so he curbs his enthusiasm with an ease that comes with much practice. “Alright. Until then.”

“Till then.” Merlin’s still smiling, and Arthur notices the way his eyes scrunch at the corners.

He can’t resist getting in the final word, so as he pulls the office door closed behind him, he says, “No french food.”

“Wanker,” Merlin retorts pleasantly, and Arthur’s grinning the whole way back to the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️❤️ ugh those two!!! sweethearts!! utterly! leave a comment!


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